


A Tomato Rose (By Any Other Name)

by Tseecka



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: (masquerading as serious!fic), Curses, Fairy Tales, Fluff, Gen, Magic, UST, crack!fic, food!porn, slight AU, slight references to cannibalism, tomato roses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-22
Updated: 2013-08-22
Packaged: 2017-12-24 08:35:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/937882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tseecka/pseuds/Tseecka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not that Hannibal has anything against simple food. It’s just that when he was a little boy, a fairy gave him the gift of making delicious food, and now its literally impossible for him to make anything but gourmet cuisine. (Crack!fic attempting to masquerade as serious!fic.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Tomato Rose (By Any Other Name)

**Author's Note:**

> This has been a beast. What started out as a cracky drabble idea somehow turned into a 15k+ word fic that took me over a month to write and caused me no end of headache, stress, blood, sweat, tears, and mad giggles late into the night. It's my first contribution to the Hannibal fandom and I've tried to be as true to the characters as possible, while still writing something humourous and fluffy. Yes. Fluffy. 
> 
> (Please note I haven't actually read any of Thomas Harris' books; all my knowledge of Hannibal's backstory is due to other fics/fandom things.)

As a child, Hannibal Lecter had always held a fervent belief in the fantastic. He had grown up with stories told by his governess, fairy tales whose origins ranged the world over; golden flowers from China, mermaids from Denmark, mad warriors from America. Mischa had loved the stories, clamouring to have her favourites told and retold at bedtime, featuring princes and princesses and magical fey creatures who were benevolent to mankind, when mankind deserved it. Hannibal’s favourites, however, had always been the tales of home, the stories unique in their way to Lithuania and which, their governess promised, no other people held so dear. They were so, she insisted, because each word was true; in Lithuania, fairy tales were history, not fancy, and a wise child would do well to learn from the mistakes and the triumphs of their forebears. And Hannibal believed.

 

It is likely that the child would have eventually grown out of his belief, as most children do. Being presented with no concrete evidence of the fairy world, and instead inundated with lessons of literary symbolism and origins of folklore, the doubt would have eventually supplanted even the most certain wondering mind. This is the process most children undergo, and while disheartening to witness, most adults—who barely hold onto memories of their own childhood beliefs to sway them—insist it necessary in order to combat and to triumph over the mundaneness of their grown-up lives. There was no reason to believe it would be otherwise with Hannibal, and even if the natural progression from child to precocious teen to stoic adult hadn’t brought it about, surely the tumultuous period that ensconced his preteen years would have ensured it.

 

It would have, but for the memory Hannibal had of standing before an ancient spruce on his family’s land and holding a grave conversation, the day of his sister’s fourth birthday. He hadn’t gone out into the forest searching for conversation—in fact, had done quite the opposite, tired of being ignored in favour of the tiny, adorable Mischa who was thoroughly enjoying her birthday celebrations. He had lamented aloud, to the clouds and the trees and the creatures in the forest, that his younger sister had taken all his family’s affection; he had wished that they could see his own worth.

 

“And what would make you worthy, in their eyes?” a voice had asked him, gentle and feminine and like the whisper of conifer needles in a breeze. There was no wind. He had looked around, wide-eyed and suddenly fearful in the growing shadows, but no one presented themselves. It was only he and the spruce tree, huge and gnarled and coldly beautiful at the edge of a glade.

 

Its branches shook.

 

“Tell me child,” the voice came again, and Hannibal was sure this time it came from the tree. He took a few tentative steps toward it. “What would you ask for? What gift would you claim, if you could choose?”

 

Hannibal considered, looking up at the branches as they shifted in the still air, and reached out a hand to touch the spiky spruce bark. It was warm to the touch, and he smiled, eyes growing wide and smile wider until it showed the gap where he’d lost one of his milk teeth. He thought about playing music, about drawing, about speaking in different languages so that no one—not his mother or his father, not his governess, not even Mischa could understand him. He thought about maths and science, and about special abilities that transcended being human. He thought of magic potions and magic beans and all the things that his governess had told the children of in her stories.

 

He thought of those things, and felt unenthused at the unimaginative nature of some, and the excluding nature of the others. He thought of the only other person who had received attention or praise at Lecter Castle that day, besides Mischa, and thought that if his family had any attention to spare on her special day, it should be for him, and not for their cook. He thought of the delicacies heaped on his dinner plate, of Mischa’s delight with pastries and his father’s appreciation of a good cut of meat and his mother’s love of complex tastes and foreign foods, and he thought of a fairy tale told over and over to him once Mischa had slept and her clamouring for Andersen tales had quieted.

 

“Good Queen Egle,” he said aloud, and felt the needles overhead shake themselves in appreciation and amusement at the quickness of his tiny mind, “I bet they would pay attention to me if I could cook the most delicious food they had ever tasted.” He knew the tale, the tropes, the tradition of these sorts of fairy stories. He knew what she would ask; he knew what she would grant. The thought filled him with eager anticipation.

 

“I can grant it to you,” she affirmed, and his eyes lit up with delight. “But first you must complete a task…”

 

The memory of an encounter with the fairy world—and the truth of it, evident in the memory of hands and fingers dirty with mud and the crumbly, flaky pastry he had produced with no assistance from the cook the very next day—remained with him always. It cemented his belief, and was enough to stay with him through the darkest ages anyone could dread a young boy having to see, preserved in a singular corner of his heart.

 

It wasn’t enough to resist being twisted by that darkness, and while the belief of childhood would always remain, Hannibal’s purity was forever lost.

 

 -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Hannibal closed his eyes. The smooth shiny skin of the tomato was sun-warmed under his fingertips; he consciously relaxed his grip on the serrated blade in his other hand, feeling the tautness of his knuckles evaporate slightly. He tapped the tip of it on the cutting board a few times; ;then, without looking, he brought it to the tomato. Juice and pulp erupted through the skin as he sliced into it, concentrating, feeling the perfect parallel cuts and visualizing the slices of tomato tumbling, domino-like, atop one another. He let out the last of his breath as the knife carefully separated the last two slices, and set the blade on the counter top.

 

Without opening his eyes, he grasped for the tomato slices and felt them under his fingers; uniform, crisp and plump and juice. The scent of tomato wafted into his nose, and he allowed himself a small smile. The juice soaked his fingertips. Arranging the slices into a neat pile, he reached for the knife, and brought it to bear once more as he took another deep, calming breath. Moving quickly, he concentrated on making neat cross wise cuts across the ripe red flesh.

 

He opened his eyes, setting the knife back down, and wiped the clean back of his wrist across his forehead before opening his eyes.

 

A perfectly shaped tomato rose sat on the cutting board.

 

Without warning, the rage he had been carefully withholding beneath his calm exterior erupted, and he swept both arms across the kitchen island. A loud, harsh curse broke the silence in the kitchen, ringing against the granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. The cutting board, the knife, and the traitorous tomato sculpture all clattered and squished, respectively, onto the floor. He braced himself against the counter, his tomato-stained fingers gripping the edge of it tightly, and breathed hard through his nose as he stared at a soggy clump of pulp and seeds that the tomato had left behind.

 

All around the kitchen, lovely red tomato roses, aggravating in their perfection, sat dotted—on plates, in pans, in bowls, in eviscerated messes on the countertops and the floor. He picked up one which had escaped the slaughter—the closest to triumph he had come, it sat atop an otherwise ordinary looking salad, taunting him with its perfection in the midst of the chaos of greens—and crushed it in his hand. Juice ran out from between his fingers, dripping down his wrist and onto the floor, and he flung it away from himself in disgust. Tomato juice splattered across the wall, and a few drops landed on the startled face of Will Graham. He blinked, stopping short before fully entering the kitchen, and slowly reached up to remove his glasses.

 

“…I get the feeling I don’t want to ask,” he said slowly, cleaning them with the hem of his shirt before replacing them on his nose and taking a good look around the kitchen. Evidence of Hannibal’s last two tormented hours were everywhere, and he leaned down to take a closer look at one tomato rose while Hannibal crouched to pick up the knife and cutting board from the floor. He viciously crushed the remnants of his latest failure under his heel, not caring about the stains to the expensive black leather shoes.

 

“I am having some difficulty achieving my desired results,” Hannibal said stiffly, rinsing board and knife under the faucet and drying them both with the dish-towel he had flung over one shoulder. Will looked surprised.

 

“Really?” He glanced down at the rose again, and ran a careful finger over the thin edge of perfectly flayed skin. He knew he didn’t have the eye for presentation and cuisine that Hannibal did, but it still looked to him like a wonderfully proportioned rose, almost interchangeable with the real thing; its petals displayed a perfect rotational symmetry, twirling into the center as their size gradually and evenly decreased, and the tomato itself was unblemished, unbruised, unmarred by torn or jagged skin or by a broken membrane.  “I’m no expert, but these look pretty amazing. Or were you trying for carnations?”

 

Hannibal glanced up at Will from where he was considering his last tomato, his expression entirely devoid of humour, and Will’s tentative smile faded.  While he recognized Will’s attempt at levity, and the sentiment behind it, he lacked the ability to truly appreciate the gesture. He knew he was showing Will more than he should. The man wouldn’t admit it, but he’d come to rely on Hannibal as a stalwart rock, a foundation of calm and detached emotion, that he could use to steady himself. Being exposed to an emotional side of himself, caught up in passion and frustration, would shake that firmament. Despite knowing this, he couldn’t manage to rein himself in, and only hoped that this exposure wouldn’t do irreparable damage to everything he had already accomplished with Will.

 

He allowed the tomato to rock back onto its base and turned away, ignoring the compulsion to deal with the stubborn fruit and instead leaning back against the countertop to give his full attention to Will. He wiped his fingertips delicately on the white material of his apron. “I wasn’t attempting to make any sort of a flower. I was actually aiming for something more simplistic; I had a craving for a light garden salad for my lunch.” He gestured to the chaotic mess of greens in the bowl off to the side, now without its adornment but taunting just the same.

 

“I know I can be a bit of a plebiscite when it comes to the culinary arts,” Will said slowly, peering into the bowl, “but if you’re just making a salad, wouldn’t you normally just...dice the tomatoes?”

 

Hannibal wasn’t sure what made him speak his next words. It felt like a compulsion, but it didn’t come from the same place that forced him to create the perfect tomato  blossoms and the exactingly  trimmed star-cut cucumber slices that were hidden, in shame, under the layers of arugula and spinach. “I was trying,” he admitted, and forced calm  to loosen his jaw and unclench his teeth before he spoke. He attempted to sound nonchalant, but Will’s confused look told him he hadn’t been entirely successful.

 

He sighed, and went to the fridge for the half-empty pitcher of sangria his dinner guests from the night before hadn’t quite managed to polish off. Carrying it in one hand, he opened a cabinet next to the sink with the other, sliding two polished wine glasses from the top shelf, and expertly set them on the counter. He set the pitcher next to them, glanced around the kitchen, and then went to the small window planter erupting with fresh herbs. Plucking two aromatic springs of mint with an expert hand, pinching off the stalks with his nails, he poured the drinks and added  the garnish to each.

 

He handed Will one of the glasses. Will looked surprised, but took it, though he only crossed his arms and watched Hannibal. Shrugging to himself, Hannibal downed a large mouthful, tasting the explosion of flavours across his tongue and appreciating the subtle bitter taste of the alcohol on  the back of his tongue. It was less bracing than he’d hoped, but Will was still looking at him, confused and expectant. There was nothing for it but to soldier on.

 

“You likely don’t know this, but I was born and raised as a child in Lithuania,” Hannibal began. “I was born to a wealthy family, and as such, had a governess when I was a young boy.  She was an older woman who had lived in the country all her life and had a great deal of familiarity with the traditional fairy tales. With all fairy tales, really--I learned those of Andersen and the Grimm brothers, amongst many others--but the Lithuanian were my favourite.” Will looked utterly bewildered, obviously wondering why the therapist was the one prattling to the patient about their childhood traumas, rather than the other way around. He took a drink; good. He would need it.  Hannibal matched him.

 

“She was adamant that these were true tales. As a young boy, I believed her, as children do. But at about the time I should have begun to grow out of fairy stories, I had an encounter myself.” He heard his own voice grow distant, wistful, recalling the magic and the wonder at his younger self’s realization that he had somehow stepped into the pages of a childhood tale.  Will’s expression was incredulous, but not quite doubtful. They had built enough trust that he would wait to hear Hannibal out before declaring him insane; he had told Hannibal enough strange and wondrous things from his own mind to feel the obligation to hear Hannibal’s own. Perhaps a friendship would not be such a distant thing, after all. “The tale of Egle, Queen of Serpents, is considered a magic tale. The titular character is a woman who, by her own mistake and misfortune, finds herself bound in marriage to the Serpent Prince--a less dread fate than initially expected, however, as he reveals himself to be both kind and exceedingly handsome.  They live happily, until she becomes homesick at the questions of her children and requests to return home with them for a visit. The jealous Prince refuses, unless she can accomplish three seemingly impossible tasks.” The familiar tale, though told in brief, still sounded awkward in English, and he found it difficult to avoid slipping back into the more comfortable natural Lithuanian of his childhood. “This she does, and is permitted to return with her children to her home. They visit her family, who has missed her greatly; but without her knowledge, her brothers plot to kill her beloved Serpent Prince who keeps her from them.”

 

Will interrupted, seemingly confused by this point. “She loves the Prince? I thought she was his hostage, taken against her will.”

 

Hannibal smiled, fond, recalling his own young self asking his governess the same question. “Originally, yes. She felt tricked and betrayed into becoming his queen. But when she actually met him, she found him to be kind and wise and handsome, a good man. Her idea of him was worse than the reality, and she willingly became his bride and mother of his children.” The parallels were not lost on Hannibal as he spoke, his eyes fondly meeting Will’s. “Many times in folklore, characters fear the unknown, which they perceive as dark or dangerous, only to find its nature is not so. They become happy in a captivity which no longer feels like being captured.”

 

Will nodded, accepting the explanation, and took another drink of the sangria. Hannibal noted that his glass was nearly empty, and reached for the pitcher to refill it before continuing with the tale.

 

“Egle’s brothers speak to her children, trying to discover the  way to call their father out of the sea so that they may kill him, and in so doing, free their sister. The boys refuse; the brothers persist; and eventually it is Egle’s daughter who reveals the secret. The Serpent Prince is slain, and when Egle discovers this, in her anger and grief she transforms her children into trees as the price of betrayal. The boys become strong trees, while the daughter becomes an aspen, and Egle herself becomes a spruce. It was my governess’ belief that Egle remained in the forest, an ancient and powerful tree spirit, and that she would on occasion grant petitioners with their dearest wishes in exchange for performing a task for her--one of the same impossible tasks which she accomplished in her own right.” His lips twitched in a small smile, barely noticeable, but Will answered the tightening around his eyes and the upward twist of his lips with a smile that matched it.  Surprisingly, it made Hannibal feel at ease, to know that the other man could read him so well.

 

“So this encounter that you had,” Will surmised, sounding like he was making a guess, “it was with this Egle? As a tree?” He didn’t trip over the Lithuanian name as it rolled from his tongue surprisingly easily, natural and familiar. Nor did he sound doubtful, or wary, reacting instead with something akin to calm acceptance. His lids were heavy over his eyes, and Hannibal cast a glance to the still-filled glass of sangria in his hand. It came as something of a shock when he realized that, without his knowing, Will was empathizing with him. The belief and acceptance of the story would come easily to him in this state, as he would feel, instinctively, the fervour of Hannibal’s belief in his own words.

 

It was not entirely uncomfortable a sensation, but Hannibal still reined in his emotions, all too aware that if he allowed Will to empathize too much further the man would come to understand more of Hannibal’s character than was really much good for either of them.  He watched in detached fascination as Will blinked, his eyes clearing as he apparently came out of whatever pseudo-trance his gift had placed him under.

 

“Yes, Will. She asked me what I desired most, and for reasons that seemed perfectly just to my  younger self, I told her I wanted to be able to cook the most delicious food my family had ever eaten. The idle dreams of an idle child, I suppose, who was looking for approval from and a way to impress his detached parents.”

 

“And what did she ask from you?” Will wanted to know. Hannibal smiled.

 

“The simplest thing for a six year old boy--to make a pie without the use of any utensils. She thought it fitting, given my request. I made a mud pie by the creek, with nothing but my hands, and she deemed it worthy. The very next day, I went into the kitchens for the first time in my life and baked my mother a real pie. It wasn’t until I reached adulthood that I realized the gift I had been blessed with was, in fact, a curse. I live under a compulsion, Will, one which I am unable to fight or to deny., and it is for that reason that you find me as I am now.” He gestured to the kitchen, his arm  indicating the tomato roses spread out everywhere, and breathed out a sigh. “I cannot make simple food.”

 

“So when you say you were trying to dice a tomato...” Will began, speaking slowly and with a tone that Hannibal would almost have mistaken for incredulity had Hannibal not been intimately acquainted both with Will’s mind and his speech and thought patterns. As it was, there was nothing of guile in Will’s voice; just the sound of a man who had, after having long been instructed to leave childhood wonder behind, just been presented with overwhelming evidence to the contrary. Will’s complete willingness to believe Hannibal’s story pleased him greatly.

 

“I do, indeed, mean that I was trying. It is an unfortunate habit of mine, every once in a while, to attempt to break my own curse. I become convinced that with enough resolve I can overcome my own compulsions, and that, having been successful once, the Serpent Queen’s hold over me will dissipate. However, that success has so far proved to be out of my grasp.”

 

Will’s eyes were thoughtful as he considered Hannibal, and Hannibal found himself wondering what Will would say when he spoke. He wouldn’t meet Hannibal’s eyes, instead drifting from his forehead to his nose and then down to his hands. His finger tapped against the side of the glass as he thought. While he was distracted, Hannibal took his own empty glass and the vacant pitcher to the sink, rinsing them and briskly swiping the last remnants of sticky beverage from the inside with a knit dishcloth. He heard Will clear his throat behind him, and didn’t turn, but acknowledged him with a short nod.

 

Will dropped his own glass lightly on the counter next to the sink, and Hannibal accepted it. He dunked it under the stream of water and gave it equal treatment to its fellow. All three implements were left to drip and dry in the dish rack, and he dried his hands off on the towel. As he efficiently refolded the towel and hung it back over the rail of the oven, Will spoke. “Show me.”

 

He bristled at the imperative phrasing of the request, but forced his own calm and betrayed nothing on his exterior. Will hadn’t meant anything by it. Nodding his acquiescence to Will’s curiosity, he returned to the island and reset his work area. Knife in hand, he glanced to his left, grasping the tomato gently in his fingers and placing it on the clean surface of the cutting board. He set the teeth of the blade to the rich red skin, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes.

 

Hannibal concentrated, focusing on his intention, envisioning the path his hands, his knife would take. He barely heard the noise of Will pulling a stool up to the counter, and was grateful that Will was considerate enough--and apparently believed his tale enough--to respect his need for silence and focus. He waited until the sound of shifting fabric had ceased, and began. The blade whispered through the tomato, slicing with precise clean movements, serrated teeth parting skin easily. The slices stacked one atop another, he separated the slices into strips, and then turned the whole thing another 90 degrees to create a series of perpendicular cuts and complete the dicing. This time, without opening his eyes, he reached out with cupped hands to gather the pieces of tomato.

 

He felt the curled edge of a petal, and his cupped hands curled into fists that he slammed into the countertop. He hadn’t far to go; the impact wasn’t painful. It jarred through his arms, though, and rattled the cutlery on the countertop. He heard Will’s intake of breath, the rustling of fabric as the man pulled away slightly, unused to such displays of aggression or anger from Hannibal. He hung his head, attempting to recapture the calm pattern of his breathing, and felt a wisp of hair detach itself from the immaculate style he had combed it into that morning. It fell forward, and brushed against his eyelid, feather light and aggravating; he ignored it, swept it to the side, and raised his head to regard Will.

 

The man looked an odd mixture of fearful and captivated. His eyes were wide, and he’d sat up straight on the stool. The heels of his hands were braced against the counter, as though ready to launch him away in a flight response, but his gaze was locked on Hannibal. His jaw twitched as he glanced from Hannibal’s hands, to his face, to the tomato rose, and back again, as though trying to determine if he was in any real danger. The scent of his thrilled fear mingled with the fresh smell of the tomatoes, and Hannibal used the excuse of taking a deep breath to draw it in through his nose. He allowed himself to calm, and watched, faintly amused, as Will visibly relaxed along with his exhalation.

 

“As you can see,” he said shortly, “an impossible task.” He picked up the tomato rose gently, setting it on a paper napkin, and sprinkled a pinch of salt over its petals before handing the napkin over to Will. The man accepted, and stared at the rose for a moment. It looked like he was about to protest; Hannibal cut him off. “Please, eat. It will go to waste otherwise.” He took the kitchen implements back over to the sink and washed them, setting them next to the glassware in the drying rack before setting to tidying up his kitchen.

 

“Now. Was there something that you needed?” Hannibal asked, sweeping gracefully around the kitchen. He collected the remaining, undamaged roses and arranged them all on a dinner plate, sliding them into an open space on the bottom shelf of his fridge. He would find some use for them. As he moistened a dish cloth under the faucet to wipe down the wall and countertops, Will cleared his throat. The sound belied an awkward state of mind, a reluctance to voice something which had the chance of being misconstrued by the hearer. He set down the cloth, turning to face Will and affecting an expression of concern. “Will?”

 

Will balled up the napkin in his hands, rolling it back and forth between his palms as he considered Hannibal. “You, uh...weren’t at your office,” he said finally, and Hannibal was not at all prepared for the rush of guilt that flooded his stomach. “We had our special appointment today, but when I got to your office--”

 

“I wasn’t there.” Hannibal closed his eyes, feeling remorseful. “Will, I am terribly sorry. It was inexcusable of me to forget our appointment. I allowed myself to get caught up in...other things. It is an excuse, and not a reason, I know. I promise you, it will not happen again. I hope you do not feel it reflects upon the value I place on you or your friendship.” Will smiled wanly, and shook his head, but it did little to assuage the guilt.

 

“It’s fine, I figured what with making the appointment last minute on a day off it may have slipped your mind. I thought I’d just...give you a call, see if you were still available. But when you didn’t answer your phone, I...well. After what happened, with Tobias...”

 

He trailed off, staring down at his hands, and Hannibal was surprisingly pleased to note the red tinge around his ears. “Then I am doubly sorry, “ Hannibal offered softly, untying the apron from around his waist and folding it meticulously as he spoke. “Both for forgetting our appointment, and for causing you concern. There are some things, apparently, which drive me to such singlemindedness as one would usually ascribe to Jack Crawford. My childhood curse is one of them. Thank you, for coming to check on me.” He smiled, and turned away to tuck the folded apron into a drawer. “If you would like, we can retire to the living room for an informal session now.”

 

Only part of the redness of Will’s skin was due to the fever ravaging his system, Hannibal realized, and the thought that Will himself might not have realized the depths to which his care and concern for Hannibal ran was oddly endearing. It was surprising to Hannibal, as well--while he had gone to great pains to ensure that he was a permanent fixture in Will’s life, he had intended to be someone that Will needed. It had never really been an aim to become an individual that Will would care for, as well. It should have been obvious, he now realized. The man forged deep, feeling, and meaningful connections wherever he could, being so often denied those types of interpersonal relationships with other human beings. It only made sense that he would do so with Hannibal, as well.

 

It seemed, however, that Will himself had only just come to this conclusion as well, and Hannibal knew already that rather than chance having to explore this strange new level to their professional  relationship, Will would decline their appointment and deflect whatever concerns had driven him to request it in the first place. It was unhealthy to let such understanding develop without the proper care, just as it would be irresponsible of him to allow Will to cancel his requested appointment and quash his unease, and Hannibal knew Will would have to be made to face this shift in his sentiments sooner, rather than later. At the same time, he dreaded pushing too far into this new territory with little information and no preparation . It would be best if he had the time to fully consider the change, and how best to assist Will in dealing with it, before it was openly discussed.

 

“It’s nothing all that important,” Will answered finally, as Hannibal knew he would, and while frustrated with the deflection he also felt a certain sense of relief. As was his custom, and out of respect for Will`s rather fragile mental state at the moment, he did push slightly--just to be sure.

 

"Are you certain, Will?” he asked gently. “It would be no trouble for me to sit with you for awhile, if there is something you wished to discuss. Indeed, it is the least I could do after such a gross oversight.”

 

Will shook his head, laughing a little to himself, and while Hannibal’s curiosity languidly made itself known, he didn’t press further. “Besides,” Will continued out loud, “Lithuanian fairy curses are much more interesting than my pathetic inability to deal with my own fragile mental state.” His attempt at a light-hearted tone did little to soothe the harsh self-deprecation of the words.

 

“Not to me,” Hannibal assured him gently, “but as you wish.” He inclined his head gracefully to indicate that he would adhere to Will’s wishes. Truth be told, he didn’t particularly wish to dwell on his own circumstance; but it interested and engaged Will, and Hannibal was intrigued to see what insights the man would offer. n

 

Emboldened by Hannibal’s acquiescence, Will got up off of the stool and crossed to Hannibal’s side of the kitchen. “I was thinking while you cleaned up,” he began, reaching for the handle of the drawer that Hannibal had just pushed closed. Amused, Hannibal slid to the side, allowing Will to pull the drawer open. He reached in and pulled out the apron from before, opening it and shaking it out before offering it to Hannibal. He took it, but didn’t put it on, waiting for Will to explain. “It’s possible that your mind...goes elsewhere, when you cook. Like when I’m at a crime scene, I become detached, and wake up standing in the middle of a road with no pants on. Your mind could be doing the same, vacating to allow something else to influence your actions.”

 

It had occurred to Hannibal, but he didn’t say so, wanting to allow Will the chance to try his hand at being the healer instead of the patient. In lieu of the therapy session he had so rudely forgotten, humouring Will was likely to be the next best thing for his ever fragile mental state. Seeing where Will's train of thought was leading, he wrapped the ties of the apron about his waist and smoothed down the fabric. Seeing this, Will offered a quick grin, and ducked past him to the fridge. Hannibal, leaning back against the island braced on his forearms, tensed momentarily as he took a quick mental inventory of his shelves. A cut of shoulder or leg would not look amiss, amongst the fresh produce and collection of high-end condiments, but if he had taken a brain or a lung out to defrost, it might raise some difficult and potentially life-threatening questions from Will. It didn’t take long--there was a rack of ribs on the bottom shelf, but Will wouldn’t see them and if he did, they were simple enough to pass off as pork. He relaxed.

 

Will let out a small noise of triumph as he located something in the uppermost crisper,  and he pulled it out, brandishing it at Hannibal. “Orange,” he supplied, as though Hannibal couldn’t see that himself. “Simple, right? Not a lot you can do to, uh, fancy up an orange.” He tossed it up in the air, catching it with a loud smack on his palm, and swung the fridge door shut. Hannibal heard the bottles in the door rattle. Will tossed it from hand to hand a few times, then reached out an arm, the orange balanced on his fingertips. Hesitating only a moment, Hannibal took it from him, running his fingers over the pebbled skin and rolling it a few times between his palms.

 

“To the contrary,” he informed Will, feeling the skin and pith loosen from the flesh as he rolled it, around and around and around. “It can be segmented normally, or supremed, or arranged in any number of aesthetically pleasing designs, based on where and how one makes the cuts.” Will nodded, his eyes on the rolling orange.

 

“Right. Well, you’re going to segment it. Just peel it and separate the slices, that’s it, that’s all. Simple.”

 

Hannibal sighed, appreciating Will’s enthusiasm but frustrated with his optimism. “I’ve tried to tell you, Will. Simple doesn’t work for me.”

 

“That’s because you concentrate too much. You focus inward.” He was gaining confidence, sure his idea would work. Hannibal almost regretted allowing it to continue, knowing that the outcome would be less than favourable. He had tried this particular experiment before, and had ended up with a perfectly coiled five millimeter strip of peel arranged as a garnish around a platter of masterfully supremed orange slices. Will was convinced of his own success, and while his failure would be damaging, it would also allow Hannibal the chance to be the bolster, to reassure him and to thank him for the effort he had made. It would insinuate him just that little bit farther into Will’s confidence, and begin laying the foundation for the friendship Will hadn’t been aware he craved from Hannibal.

 

“So then, what would you suggest?” He retrieved the cutting board and set it on the counter next to the sink, to protect the surface from the acidic orange juices. He kept his tone carefully neutral and only faintly allowed interest to show through, like a man being shown how to hope and not quite having the confidence to allow himself to do so.

 

“Talk aloud while you do it. Speak out what you’re doing, ground yourself--like you taught me, with the clock.” Will gestured to the orange, then mimed peeling it, his eyes closed and muttering in a monotone that was a poor approximation of Hannibal’s accent, “‘My name is Hannibal Lecter, it is--” he cracked an eye open to peer at the clock on the microwave--”2:17 pm, and I am peeling an orange. I continue peeling the orange, tearing off useless segments of peel and tossing them in the sink. I pull the orange apart.’ Et cetera, et cetera. Keep grounding yourself in your body, establish yourself in control of your own mind.” He paused, and his grin grew a little. It was one of the most genuine expressions of pleasure that Hannibal had yet seen on his face. Acting the part of the healer was apparently good for Will Graham--something he should have realized from the man’s relationship to animals, though he’d never considered it a healer/patient dynamic before. “Just keep telling yourself, ‘This is my design’. But say it out loud, so your mind can’t deny it.”

 

It was too bad he was doomed to fail.

 

Instead of saying so, Hannibal just shared a smile with him at the clever use of his own classroom catchphrase and nodded. “I will try what you suggest. I will admit, Will, that if you manage in an afternoon to cure me of this lifelong affliction, I will owe much to you.” Will reddened slightly; it was gratifying, and Hannibal determined that he would play his role in this farce to the utmost.

 

“Don’t thank me yet. Come on.” He gestured to the orange, sitting silent and ominous on the cutting board, and Hannibal was glad at least that he had managed to select a ripe one. He picked it up in one hand and found the top of it, running first the pads of his fingers and then his nails around the tiny stub of a stem. His eyes closed. "My name is Hannibal Lecter," he intoned in a soft voice, "it is 2:19 pm, and I am peeling an orange."

 

He continued the quiet narration as he quickly stripped the orange of its peel, focusing on tearing the peel off in large, ragged pieces. "I tear the peel away from the flesh, not caring about the pith. I will remove it later if need be." The orange juice made his fingers sticky, tacky, as he slid the peel to one side and held the orange in his hands.

 

He split the fruit in half down the center seam, pulling at the thick white stem in the center. Will wasn’t reacting, and Hannibal briefly allowed himself the illusion that he was successfully managing to simply segment the orange. He knew better.

 

"I use my thumb to separate the orange along its natural segmental lines," he continued. "My name is Hannibal Lecter and I am pulling apart an orange with nothing but my fingers." He stacked the segments in the top left corner of the board, grouping them together as he went, feeling for any bits of pith hanging off of them. The last two segments peeled apart with some difficulty; juice squirted over his fingertips as the membrane separating them tore.

 

He heard Will breathe out a long sigh of disappointment. "The fact that you can do that with your eyes closed is incredible," he admitted, and Hannibal opened his eyes to see the supremed orange, arranged gently like the petals of an opening water lily and nestled in a nest of perfectly even ropes of peel. It was impressive, he decided, even for him; impressive too the power of the magic queen's curse, that his thoughts could so completely disconnect from the external stimuli presented by his fingers. "I'm sorry, Dr. Lecter. I really thought that would work."

 

Hannibal set the orange aside. He'd bake perhaps; a light angel food, flavoured with orange blossom water and iced with airy buttercream. The supremed orange would serve as a decorative garnish. "As did I, Will," he lied, allowing his voice to become tinged with melancholy at their combined failures. "Your logic was sound, but it seems where magic reigns, logic can be trumped." Will nodded mutely, seemingly more crushed by his failure than Hannibal had expected. He picked at a piece of pith that was still stuck to the board.

 

“It was bizarre--I haven’t seen anything like that before.” Hannibal considered the sticky orange juice clinging to his skin in the web between his first finger and thumb. He licked the pad of the opposite thumb and rubbed at the spot idly, getting rid of the worst of the lingering residue. “You said one thing, and meanwhile, you were doing two or three others. You were still peeling the orange when you started referring to segmentation.” His tongue tingled with the orange oils as they transferred from his thumb, and his nose wrinkled slightly in distaste. He turned to rinse his hands under the faucet instead.

 

“I will have to take your word on that,” he informed Will, and dried  his hands. His eyes fell on the clock; it had taken him longer to make the orange decoration than he had thought. It was nearly 3:30 and he would have to start dinner soon. “Despite our awareness exercise, my mind fully believed that I was carrying out the actions as I described them. There was no indication that my hands were following any instructions other than my own.” He was surprised to note the frustration and disappointment in his own words. He had known all along that the outcome of Will’s little experiment would be a disappointment, but as always, he had allowed himself to hope.

 

“What if that’s your problem?” Will asked rhetorically. “That the instructions are your own. You might have better luck following the instructions of another person, taking your brain out of it--”

 

“--and allowing my hands to naturally perform the motions that are as second nature to them,” Hannibal finished. “It is an admirable theory, though I still believe that something as indeterminate as a magical curse cannot be solved by the use of cool human logic.” Will huffed a breath through his nose, his lips quirking briefly, as though Hannibal had made a joke, and Hannibal cocked his head in Will’s direction.

 

“Put aside logic,” Will supplied cryptically, and Hannibal considered his advice briefly before nodding, unsure of where the humour.

 

“Precisely. At present, however, I am afraid we must put aside these speculations. I have a rack of ribs in the refrigerator that require my attention, and about sixteen tomato roses to...arrange.” He gave a small, self-satisfied smirk in Will’s direction, and Will returned the brief humourless smile with one of his own. It looked strained, as did Will as he turned to glance over his shoulder at the front door. “If you don’t mind my being a less-than-gracious host, Will, I would be honoured if you would stay to share dinner with me. It is the least I can do for wasting so much of your time today.”

 

Will’s shoulders relaxed at that, and Hannibal wondered, as he often did, at Will’s lack of interpersonal relationships. He had been markedly nervous at the sudden revelation of his desire for friendship; yet for that new, foreign yearning to win out over his more natural state of withdrawal and introversion gave it a great deal of weight, and he wondered that it didn’t drive him to socialize more. It was obvious that he felt a great deal of relief at being asked to stay, and Hannibal was pleased to be able to provide that to him.

 

“If you’re sure I’m not an intrusion,” Will began, and Hannibal shook his head, going to the fridge and withdrawing the ingredients he would need for their meal. “I didn’t exactly come here by invitation in the first place.”

 

“You have a standing invitation to visit me whenever you like,” Hannibal informed him. “My door is always open to you, Will.” Opening a small cutlery drawer, he withdrew a set of measuring spoons, and began tipping small quantities of various herbs and spices into a ceramic bowl, pulling bottles out of the spice rack one by one. Using the tablespoon measure to avoid dirtying any more dishes than necessary, he briskly mixed them all together before adding the brown sugar and combining it into a soft, beautifully complex powder. He set the measuring spoons aside, and reached out for a large meat knife and one of the sturdier cutting boards.

 

“Do you offer standing invitations into your home to all of your patients?” Will asked, coming around the island and leaning against the kitchen counter on the opposite side of the sink from Hannibal, hands braced behind his back. Hannibal smiled as he counted off ribs with his fingers, and slid the knife between two, separating the meat into four equal slabs.

 

“No,” he answered succinctly, and set the knife aside next to the measuring spoons. “but my friends do.” The admission had the desired effect; not expecting the sentiment, it was apparent that Will had no prepared response, and he lapsed into a surprised, but pleased, silence. Hannibal wondered if Will’s inability to mask his emotions was a result of his empathic prowess, or merely a personality quirk. It made him easy to manipulate, if a person so desired; it was also strangely endearing. Hannibal glanced up and to the side, wanting to gauge Will’s physical reaction. The man was smiling to himself, looking down at his hands, the tips of his ears again a bright red. He had likely not expected a confirmation of the shift in their relationship so quickly, had probably not even expected Hannibal to affirm or acknowledge it, and was rapidly having to deal with the shifting ground under his feet. He fidgeted quietly, not enough to be distracting, and Hannibal sprinkled some of the spice rub onto the first segment of ribs and began working it in expertly with his fingers.

 

The multilayered aroma of the spice rub tickled at his nostrils pleasantly as he finished with the second segment and moved on to the third. Will’s hands set up a drum beat against the countertop, evidently still at a loss for words and feeling awkward. Taking pity on him, Hannibal set the meat aside and gave Will a look. The drumming stopped mid-beat, and Will deliberately pulled his hands away from the counter. “Sorry. It’s a bit of a nervous habit. I don’t do well with being idle.” The word sounded like something distasteful, a sour grape bitter on his tongue, as though he were spitting it out. “Can I help, somehow?”

 

Hannibal considered his request as his fingers automatically continued to gently massage fingerfuls of the mixed spices into the cold, slick meat. “Yes, all right,” he agreed finally, setting aside the portion of ribs and turning to the last section. He tipped some of what was left of the rub into another dish, handing it over to Will. “There is a small bag of fingerling potatoes in the pantry,” Hannibal informed him. “If you would like to wash and dice them, we will use this spice rub to roast the potatoes with the ribs.” He gestured at the pantry door with one hand, palm turned up to keep the damp clumps of spices on his fingertips from falling to the floor, and Will followed his direction to the large, well-stocked pantry. Hannibal twisted the dial on the oven with his clean left hand before continuing to prepare the last rack of ribs.

 

With his attention occupied, Will was far less distracting than he had been, and they moved through the motions of preparing dinner in a companionable silence. With the ribs done, Hannibal turned his attention to preparing the angel food cake he had decided on earlier, and took over the kitchen island to do his measuring and mixing. He watched Will appraisingly as the man brushed the potatoes under a thin stream of running water and quartered them. He didn’t have Hannibal’s skill with a knife; his movements were overly grand, chopping harshly when a simple clean slide would do just as well to part the skin and rend the yellow flesh. He wasn’t cutting them into as fine of pieces as Hannibal would have done, merely quartering them and occasionally splitting one of those pieces if they proved too asymmetrical, and Hannibal wondered idly if his own habit of finely cubing potatoes was a product of his own preferences or of the Serpent Queen’s curse. He didn’t correct Will on the practice. The larger potatoes would roast more closely to the pace of the ribs, and wouldn’t need to be removed as soon as they would have had they been smaller. He satisfied himself by determining he would cut the potatoes into smaller pieces with a fork, and decided shortly after that that his preference for potato size and style was likely his own quirk.

 

Will didn’t ask for instruction once the potatoes were washed and diced. He wiped his hands on a dishtowel and began poking through Hannibal’s cupboards, opening and closing each in rapid succession until he had located a deep wide bowl and the large, ornate jug that Hannibal used to store his olive oil. Hannibal watched him scoop the potatoes into the bowl, then tip a thin stream of oil out of the neck of the bottle, carefully eyeing the amount as it drizzled over the potatoes. He had to admit to a certain amount of surprise; he had expected Will to go for the measuring spoons, not to just begin to pour with a measured hand and a practiced eye. It was not an unpleasant surprise, he decided, whisking together the dry ingredients he had carefully measured out and weighed into the ceramic bowl.

 

Carefully, Will tilted the bottle back, allowing the stream of oil to slow to a drip, finally returning it to upright without spilling a drop. He replaced the cork into the bottle and stowed it back in its place, a gesture that acknowledged the precision and meticulous organization of Hannibal's kitchen. The spice rub was sprinkled over the potatoes; then Will carefully rolled up his sleeves and dug his hands into the bowl, tossing and mixing to ensure they all received an even coat.

 

Satisfied with his technique and his ability, Hannibal returned his focus to cracking eggs. At about the same moment that the third shell split beautifully under gentle pressure from his thumb, Will muttered a curse, and there was the telltale splat of potatoes hitting the floor. Hannibal finished separating the yolk and white before calmly looking up.

 

Will had managed to save most of the potatoes, but it seemed he had done so using his front, as opposed to his hands. They were scattered all over the countertop, and the powder blue front of his shirt was covered in quickly setting oil stains and scattered smears of spices. He looked up at Hannibal, sheepish. "I should have used a bigger bowl," he admitted. Hannibal quickly assessed the damage, casting an eye over Will's shirt.

 

"We will need to soak that, before the stains set in," he informed Will briskly. The man was quite a bit slighter than himself, but he thought he might have an older shirt in the back of his closet that could fit, at least well enough to serve until Will's had been cleaned. "Take it off; I will take care of it."

 

Will reddened. "It's fine, really, it isn't that valuable of a shirt," he protested, fingers twitching as though wanting to obey the command to undo the top button. It was a futile gesture; and while Hannibal privately thought that Will could do with a few more disasters to eradicate some of the more offensive pieces of his wardrobe, he was aware that the flannel shirts and oversized jackets were a source of comfort, a form of armour for Will to shrink into and hide behind.

 

"Nonsense," Hannibal insisted, abandoning the angel food cake for the moment. "It was an oversight on my part--I have an extra apron, which I should have made available to you. Off." He quickly finished Will's work with the potatoes, after giving him a look that was clear enough for Will to understand he would brook no argument. Will began unbuttoning the shirt. Hannibal tipped the potatoes out onto a sheet he had lined with parchment paper, separating them all cleanly and spreading them evenly over the pan. Will moved out of his way as he realized that Hannibal was going for the oven, and Hannibal opened the oven door to slide the two pans--ribs and potatoes--onto the two centre racks. He shut the door, and set the timer on the stovetop, then turned in time to take Will's shirt from him before the man could ball the material up. His once-white undershirt was ratty, threadbare in places and grey in others from overwear, and Hannibal could tell that his scrutiny made Will uncomfortable.

 

"Now I really am underdressed for a dinner party," Will joked half-heartedly. Hannibal couldn't help but correct him.

 

"This isn't a dinner party, Will. We are just two friends, preparing to have dinner together. But if you feel that uncomfortable, I would be happy to loan you one of mine." Will crossed his arms self-consciously across his chest and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "It would not," Hannibal interjected mildly, foreseeing his protest, "be an imposition."

 

"…all right," Will agreed, sighing a little in exasperation. Hannibal couldn't quite determine if it was directed at him, or at himself. He draped the material over one arm and turned on his heel, gesturing for Will to follow.

 

As the shirt soaked in a mild solution to encourage the stain to relinquish its hold on the material, Hannibal shifted hangers along the closet rod, searching for a shirt that would be suitable for Will. Will stood awkwardly just inside the doorway of Hannibal's bedroom, arms still crossed defensively over his shabby undershirt, until Hannibal made a small noise of triumph and withdrew a wooden hanger with a very expensive shirt draping elegantly from its frame. The deep, rich red reminded Hannibal of a fine wine, fresh spilled blood; it was a difficult colour to replicate, and he had kept it despite it having grown too small for his frame for that reason. He passed the hanger to Will. "This one should fit you, well enough to be suitable. I used to be a slighter man than I am now, much closer to your own build." Will slid the fabric off the hanger, feeling its weave subtly between his fingers and thumb, and Hannibal noted the exact moment he reacted to the fabric content.

 

"Is this silk?" he asked disbelievingly, unbuttoning the front gingerly as though frightened it would tear--a baseless fear, given silk's deceptive strength. Hannibal nodded, taking the hanger that Will handed back to him and hooking it back into the closet. He shut off the light, and led the way back down the hall, Will following at his heels still doing up the shirt.

 

“Thai silk, yes,” Hannibal affirmed, waving Will into the kitchen ahead of himself and going to the pantry. There was an apron hanging on the back of the door--a novelty one he had been given as a gift but which he had never worn. The front of it read "Kiss the Cook" in a bold serif font; it wasn't the sentiment that he found offensive, however. He generally disliked using barbecue style aprons, preferring the half-apron style. Will barked a laugh as he took it from Hannibal and looped it over his neck.

 

"Somehow, I can't see you ever wearing this," he admitted, tying the ends into a knot behind him. The shirt was loose on him, but not enough to make him shapeless, and with the help of the cinching apron ties the effect was of a loose, slightly poofy period shirt. It was an interesting fashion statement, Hannibal decided. He raised an eyebrow at Will, who laughed in return and rolled up his sleeves. "I look ridiculous right now, don't I?" he asked.

 

"If I were being diplomatic, I would tell you no," Hannibal replied, returning to his cake. He cracked open a fresh bottle of orange blossom water and let a few drops fall into the eggs, beating the wet ingredients together by hand. Will took up a seat on the stool, once again seemingly content to just watch Hannibal work.

 

"If you were being diplomatic…?" Will prompted. Hannibal glanced up at him again, the wine shirt and black apron with blood-red letters.

 

"Yes. As it is, you look like a red-blooded American who misunderstands the purpose of a Renaissance Faire," Hannibal suggested. "But I will admit, it is better than your prior wardrobe choice."

 

"The dirty undershirt, or the blue flannel?" Will asked. Hannibal poured the wet ingredients in with the dry, and set to work combining them with a rubber spatula, not looking up.

 

"In the interests of diplomacy, I believe I will decline answering that," Hannibal replied. His attention was diverted from his cake batter when Will laughed out loud at his answer. It was a foreign sound--he had heard Will laugh in self-deprecation, and in a hopeless attempt to find humour in a humourless situation, but upon reflection he realized that none of their prior conversations had been marked by true mirth. It seemed that, for all his anxiety, Will was adapting remarkably well to the idea of their new and quickly solidifying friendship. Hannibal found that he, too, enjoyed their easy banter; while the shift in their relationship served its own purposes, it was not an unpleasant transition.

 

As Will’s laughter died out, Hannibal carefully set the spatula aside and regarded him evenly. The expression of mirth disappeared from his face, but his eyes still crinkled somewhat at the edges. “I didn’t know you knew how to joke,” Will admitted, his thumb brushing at a tear that had evidently come into his eye at his own laughter.

 

“When the situation is appropriate,” Hannibal told him. He bent down, opening the cupboard doors at the back of the island to pull out out a springform pan, and set it on the countertop. “Prior to this, our only conversations have been in regards to your state of mental health. It would not have been seemly for me to make jokes at your expense at that time, and I doubt you would have found them funny.”

 

“Probably not,” Will agreed. When Hannibal poured the batter into the pan, he took up the spatula, using it to scrape out the last of the batter while Hannibal held the bowl steady. “If it helps…I’m sorry for my poor fashion sense.”

 

Hannibal allowed Will to take the bowl and spatula over to the sink and rinse them while he sheared a piece of plastic wrap to cover the cake until it was time to bake. He slid it into the refrigerator, making use of the empty space vacated by the rack of ribs; he would put it in to bake while they were eating dinner. “I don’t judge you for your fashion sense, Will; and I understand why you make the choices you do. Your clothing is a comfort to you, a security. I would not dream of taking that from you.”

 

“You took my shirt,” Will pointed out, the faint smile back on his features.

 

“Only to keep it from becoming irretrievably stained,” Hannibal answered seriously, and Will’s smile fell, sensing that they were only partially discussing clothing and not sure how to navigate the metaphor. Before he could withdraw too far into his own thoughts and insecurities, Hannibal added, “I must make the glaze for the cake, and then it will simply be a matter of waiting for our meal to be ready. You may feel free to make yourself comfortable in the sitting room--perhaps with a bottle of wine?”

 

Will nodded, taking off his apron. He opened the pantry door in search of the wine Hannibal knew he must have seen in there earlier, hanging the apron back on its hook before crouching to read the labels on the bottles that filled the lowest shelf. Hannibal placed a small saucepan on the stovetop, switching on the dial and allowing the pan to begin to heat as he gathered his ingredients and measured them out.

 

“What goes with pork?” Will called from the pantry, and Hannibal smiled.

 

“There should be a bottle of Pinot Grigio, at the back,” he responded, and heard the clink as Will shifted bottles around. “Elena Walch. 2006, if memory serves.” He tipped in the orange juice, stirring it with a whisk as it hit the bottom of the pan and hissed and spluttered, then added the zest and sugar. While less sweet than the icing that would normally coat an angel-food cake, he thought Will would appreciate the sweet spicy tang and concentrated flavour of this particular reduction. He hesitated only a moment before adding just a splash from a bottle of dark rum he kept over the stovetop, and smiled to himself as the scents began to combine in the fragrant steam.

 

He heard Will opening and closing drawers behind him. “I’ve only ever had one glass of pinot grigio,” Will confessed, “and it was terrible. I’m putting a lot of trust in you on this one--don’t disappoint me.” Hannibal wondered if Will heard the weight in his own words, had considered the implication in view of the awkward end to the previous topic. There was a clatter as Will dug out the corkscrew, having finally located it, and he gently moved Hannibal’s empty dishes out of the way to set the wine bottle on the counter. He set the tip of the screw to the cork, then paused.

 

Though he didn’t stop whisking, Hannibal turned to look at him, and was surprised to find that he had misread Will’s silence. Instead of being lost in thought, Will was watching him, and evidently had been not only expecting, but waiting for his full attention before he continued. “Thank you for taking care of my shirt.” He didn’t wait for a response, just turned his hand and allowed the screw to bite into the airy cork. Hannibal watched him a moment longer, feeling a foreign confusion tugging at the back of his mind at the statement. It wasn’t unlike Will to be metaphorical, sometimes to the point of mental exhaustion, yet it was very seldom that he seemed to be actively aware of his own purple speech. As Will concentrated on the cork, and Hannibal turned his attention back to the now-boiling glaze, he considered the purposeful clarity with which Will had made his declaration.

 

“You are welcome,” he answered finally, carefully lending the right amount of weight to his words so that Will would know he had understood both meanings. The cork popped quietly as Will depressed the handles on the screw, levering it out of the neck. He wrapped his fingers around the delicate stems of the glasses in the dish rack, but Hannibal cleared his throat, looking significantly at the cabinet where he kept his glassware. Will glanced from the glasses to Hannibal, and back again, disbelief and laughter clearly scribing themselves across his features.

 

He went to the cabinet, opening one door and finding the shelf with the wine glasses. “Seriously?” Looking back at Hannibal over his shoulder, he ran his finger along the immaculate edge of the shelf slowly, indicating one style of wine glass after another until Hannibal gave an indulgent, approving nod. He picked two down, inspecting the glass carefully, and Hannibal smiled down at his glaze as he removed it from the heat, knowing the water spots and dust Will was habitually looking for weren’t there. When he glanced up again, Will was looking from the glass he held in his hand to the ones drying in the dish rack, a look of consternation on his face as though he couldn’t quite fathom that there was any difference between the two. The glaze would be allowed to cool in a silicone pan, then placed in the oven along with the cake when it was time to bake, remelting in the heat to be poured over the completed confection. As he retrieved said silicone dish from the drawer next to the oven, setting it on the countertop and delicately pouring the boiling hot liquid into it, he decided to alleviate Will’s confusion.

 

“The glasses we used for the sangria have a slightly wider mouth and a shorter stem, and are more similar to red wine glasses. Red wine requires breathing, and if not aerated before pouring, the wider mouth of the glass allows it to do so after being poured. Most red wines also do not require a great deal of chilling, and so, you may hold the glass by the bowl.” He set the now empty pot into the sink, and picked up the clean glass to demonstrate. “White wines, including pinot grigios, need no such treatment, so their bowls are considerably narrower, with a narrow mouth. However, as they are usually to be served chilled, it is necessary to grasp the glass by its stem, not the bowl, and so the stem is longer to accommodate one’s hand.” He switched his grip, then picked up both glasses and returned them to their place in the cabinet while Will poured the wine.

 

“I doubt I’ll ever mistake them again,” Will dead-panned, with a tone that indicated that while he understood the differences on a theoretical level, he didn’t see the point, and handed Hannibal one glass before raising his own for a casual toast. They clinked the edges of their glasses together, and Hannibal took a small step back, gesturing gracefully with his arm that Will should precede him into the living room.

 

“We have some time yet before dinner is ready,” he informed Will, checking the timer. He was surprised to note that there were only thirty minutes left before the ribs and potatoes were ready. The smoky-sweet scent of the roasting meat drifted in the air, and he felt himself salivating just a little, as always. While the curse precluded him from anything as simple as brushing a bottled sauce on the meat and just tossing it on the grill, he did have to admit that always eating delicious, well-appointed meals was a benefit, no matter much he craved the simpler fare.

 

Will hesitated briefly in the living room, casting a glance Hannibal’s way and waiting for him to choose a seat in the wing-back armchair before settling himself at one end of the sofa. He placed the wine bottle on the glass end table between them, and thoughtfully placed a coaster under his glass before setting it down. Hannibal smiled in approval, but held his own wine glass in his hands, resting the base of the stem on one thigh as he crossed his legs, ankle over knee. His posture seemingly made Will anxious; the man retrieved his glass, rearranging himself in his seat. He met Hannibal’s eyes, then glanced down at the liquid in the glass.

 

“I’m still not entirely sure I trust this,” he confessed, bringing the edge of the glass to his upper lip and sniffing delicately. He regarded the wine a moment more before taking a tentative sip. Hannibal watched, curious to see his reaction. A blank look crossed Will’s face, his tongue darting out to swipe residual moisture from his lip; “Not bad,” he admitted, “though still not my favourite.”

 

“Better, at least, than your previous experience?” Hannibal asked. Will considered, then took another sip.

 

“Yes,” he decided, “definitely. I expect it’ll be even better with the food?” Hannibal nodded, pleased at his perception.

 

“Indeed. Pinot grigio is delicious, to someone with a palate to appreciate it, but it’s true complexity does come forward more when paired with the right meal. In our case, it is dry enough to not overwhelm the sweetness of the spices, but pale enough to allow the smokiness to come through as well. You’ll see.” He tipped the glass against his mouth, allowing himself a large swallow of wine and enjoying the dry bite of it against his tongue. Will, he noticed, did not follow suit, instead taking another small sip. Hannibal frowned.

 

“If it truly isn’t to your liking, we can open another bottle,” he offered, uncrossing his legs and setting the glass on the table. He made to rise, but Will held out a placating hand.

 

“Really, Dr. Lecter, it’s fine. I’ll nurse this until dinner. Besides, I’ve always found that even the most detestable wines become exponentially more delicious the longer you drink them.” He offered a quick smile, which Hannibal returned after a brief moment of hesitation to decide whether Will was insulting the wine. He determined it didn’t matter, and appreciated Will’s effort to drink it anyways if he did truly dislike it; it had been a pricey bottle, and while he didn’t mourn the monetary loss, it was always disappointing to have a good bottle go to waste because of a picky palate.

 

“It would seem vision is not the only sense which can be impaired to the point of deception by the application of alcohol,” he allowed, and lifted one side of his mouth in a small smirk. Will laughed, and seemed somewhat caught off guard by it--Hannibal wasn’t sure whether the joke itself, or the novelty of Hannibal making a reference to the plebian myth of “beer goggles”, was the truer source of his amusement.

 

There was awkwardness to their conversation as they waited for the sound of the timer; Hannibal was aware of it, and if he was correctly reading the man’s body language, so was Will. He shifted a number of times in his seat like an anxious dog trying to find a comfortable position to lie in, and his eyes were more often cast down at his hands, or his wine glass, or fixated on a neutral point on the wall than actively engaging in eye contact with his therapist. Hannibal supposed it was to be expected; despite the quick progression of their relationship from purely professional to something approaching friendship, it was naturally difficult to abandon his previous mindset. He had never discouraged Will from making small talk about the mundane points of life in their therapy sessions, rather suggesting, repeatedly, that their time was Will’s and the topic of choice rested in his hands. It had simply never, or seldom, at least, worked out that those topics ended up on the table of discussion. Will was so preoccupied with his work life, his cases, and the complexities of the interpersonal professional relationships they led him to establish that there was rarely occasion to speak casually about sports, the weather, or recent films. Adjusting to the new rules of discourse would take time, a fact that was nowhere so evident as in Will’s apparently inability to call Hannibal by his first name.

 

“You surprise me, Dr. Lecter,” Will was saying, as the timer dinged faintly from the kitchen. “I would have expected you to spend more of your free time at concert halls and art galleries than the movie theatre.” Hannibal grasped the wine bottle by the neck as he stood, and Will followed shortly after, having apparently not heard the notification that their dinner was ready. He acknowledged Will’s observation with a nod of his head, one he knew Will could see from his position at his elbow.

 

“I do prefer the art house theatre to the larger cineplexes,” Hannibal admitted, referring to the small downtown theatre that played foreign and special interest films more often than not and eschewing the larger blockbusters and feature films, “but on occasion, yes. It’s a simple enough diversion for an evening, and it helps me to understand my patients. Fifty years ago, a psychiatric patient would likely deflect to sports teams or the weather when they don’t wish to outright discuss their issues and needs.” He set down his wine glass and the bottle on the countertop and pulled open a drawer, pulling out two plush oven mitts and slipping them onto his hands. Will took them over, carrying them out to the dining room and setting them on the table before  beginning to rifle through cupboards and drawers to locate the place settings. A gust of steam billowed out of the oven as Hannibal opened it, carrying with it the complex scents of their meal, and one by one Hannibal withdrew the pans. “Now,” he finished, turning the dial down a few degrees and retrieving the cake from the fridge, “it’s movies and the latest episodes of television serials.”

 

There was the sound of clattering cutlery from the dining room; then Will reappeared in the kitchen, going this time for the serving bowls in the corner cupboard and bringing one over to Hannibal to house the golden, aromatic potatoes. “So, he prefers the botanical garden to the museum, and concert halls to movie theatres, but he’ll take any of those over an afternoon at an art gallery. Definitely not what I would have expected.” He sounded thoughtful, more than surprised, and Hannibal felt pleased that the empathic abilities of his mind had at least not given Will unlimited insight into his character.

 

“We are all allowed our vices,” he admonished mildly, and didn’t mention that the cineplex on a Friday evening was excellent hunting, rife with short-tempered youths and belligerent concession counter employees. “Mine happens to be theatre popcorn.” As Will moved to take the potatoes out to the table, Hannibal stopped him, wrapping his hands around the slowly-warming ceramic. “Would you mind bringing the plates back from the dining room?” he asked mildly, trying to ignore the itching in his fingertips. “Presentation, you understand.”

 

Will’s eyes widened in understanding, and he coloured again, abashment showing in his features. “Right. Of course.” He did a little hop turn, striding out of the kitchen to retrieve the dinnerware from where he’d laid it out on the emerald green tablecloth, and Hannibal went to the fridge for the platter of tomato roses. When the empty plates were in hand, he quickly filled each with a rack of ribs, three tomato roses artfully arranged, sprinkled with sea salt and a basil garnish, and a small helping of the roasted potatoes. The effect, he decided, was refined. The pork ribs were a pale antique brown, set off nicely by the rich deep gold of the potatoes in stark contrast with the bright vibrant red of the tomatoes. He mentally applauded Will for the choice of tablecloth; the emerald green would form a beautiful contrast to the rich tones of their food.

 

With Will’s help, he placed the excess bowls and platters of food in the center of one end of the table; when Will made to return to the kitchen with him for the plates, he shook his head, “Sit,” he urged, “please. You are still my guest, despite the informal nature of our dinner.” Will gave him a long look, as though he was considering refusing, but evidently changed his mind about it and acquiesced. Hannibal smiled and returned to the kitchen. He slid the cake into the oven, which had finally lowered to the correct temperature, and re-set the timer. That done, he took up a plate in each hand, and returned to his guest in the dining room, shutting off the kitchen light with his elbow.

 

Will had lit the candles on the table during his brief absence, and while the occasion certainly didn’t call for it in Hannibal’s opinion, he had to admit that the golden glow the flickering lights emitted did complement the shades of the food. He placed one plate before Will, who smiled in thanks, and set the other before his own empty plate before seating himself. “Bon appetit,” he said, plucking up his napkin and settling it on his thigh before picking up his knife and fork.

 

“Bon appetit,” Will mumbled back in a terrible bastardization of French. Hannibal didn’t comment, instead slicing off a small bite of flesh from the end of his ribs and placing it gently on his tongue. The tastes were exquisite, and melded seamlessly on his tongue; the perfect blend of sweet and smoky flavours, mingling with the tender meat. He chewed, swallowed, and glanced at Will to gauge his reaction.  

 

“Delicious,” Will admitted, swallowing his own bite and reaching for the wine glass to wash it down. He made a small noise of appreciation, as Hannibal had expected, as the pinot grigio combined with the spices. “Oh, that is good.” Hannibal tipped his head in acknowledgement of the complement.

 

“Your potatoes turned out wonderfully,” he informed Will, who looked pleased at his verdict.

 

“Honestly? Roasted potatoes are one of the only things I know how to make, without a recipe,” he admitted, spearing one of the aforementioned potatoes with his fork and raising it to eye level to regard it before popping it in his mouth. “If you’d asked me to make the ribs, I’d have been hopeless.”

 

“It seems we two are plagued by the opposite problems,” Hannibal observed. “I cannot make simple food--”

 

“And the fanciest I can manage is macaroni and cheese with hot dogs,” Will finished, and raised his glass in response to Hannibal’s offered toast. “To us, then.”

 

Hannibal raised an eyebrow at that, but echoed the sentiment. “Indeed.” He took a swallow of the wine, enjoying the interplay of the dry liquor with the flavours from his plate, and set his glass back down. Will did the same, though his movements were hurried, and his head ducked in towards his plate as though embarrassed by his earlier toast. He continued to observe Will as they ate in relative silence, the clatter of knives against plates the only sound in the room. He had neglected to turn on any ambient music for dinner, foreseeing active and engaged conversation, but Will’s brash regard and rushed acceptance of their new friendship seemed to have embarrassed him into silence.

 

Perhaps not so new, Hannibal mused, delicately flaying the tomato rose into its component pieces and slicing each into manageable bites with his knife. Will’s words had belied a sentiment that was more deeply seated, longer held, than a discovery made only a few hours ago. It was apparent, in retrospect, that Will had considered Hannibal a friend for longer than he had made known. It wasn’t unbelievable; his society anxiety and general ignorance to social norms would have made it difficult for him to express feelings of friendship, especially in a circumstance where he couldn’t be sure of it’s receipt. Hannibal’s acceptance earlier, then, had been unexpected but not unwarranted; prepared to be held at arm’s length, Will had been caught unawares by the easy shift of their relationship and Hannibal’s welcoming of that further step. His words at the dinner table were a tell that revealed more than he wished about his earlier perceptions; he was now embarrassed that Hannibal knew he had considered him a friend for longer than he had admitted, possibly to anyone.

 

“On the subject of entertainment,” he said aloud as he reached across for more potatoes, “you seem to have forgotten one of the most important activities.” He could see Will’s eyes, tracking his motions, in his periphery, and noted the pleased little smile Will made at his choice of seconds. His posture relaxed,  and he settled back into his seat considerably less tense. Of course--he had been Hannibal’s patient for months, now, he would have been expecting Hannibal to psychoanalyze his words. His lack of comment, or his ignorance--whichever Will believed it to be--apparently put him more at ease. It only made sense; words of friendship should not be marred by the analysis of their speaking. He offered Will another spoonful of potatoes, which he accepted, before setting the bowl back onto the table.

 

“And what would that be?” Will asked. His words still sounded careful, though there was a warmth in them that was difficult to miss, and just a hint of something approaching disappointment. Hannibal made to reach for the tomatoes, and Will beat him to it, picking up the platter and carefully sliding one more onto Hannibal’s plate before adding two to his own. The ribs sat untouched--rich, and delicious, but heavy on the stomach, and Hannibal knew both he and Will were still considering the dessert that was to come. His disappointment was something to be considered; either Hannibal’s reaction, or his choice of subject, had not been what he was hoping for.

 

“Fishing,” Hannibal replied. Will looked up at that, surprised eyes meeting Hannibal’s.

 

“You fish?”

 

“On occasion.” He drained the last of his wine, and nodded his thanks to Will as the man rose slightly to refill his glass. “I used to fancy myself quite the fly-fishing aficionado, though I’ve found recently that I’m more averse to the necessary early mornings than I once was.” Will laughed at that, shaking his head slightly as he speared three more pieces of potato on his fork and ate them all at once. The conversation passed much more easily after that, and Hannibal found himself enjoying the manufacture of the tall tales they exchanged back and forth. He did legitimately enjoy the sport, the very few times he had participated, though his appreciation lay more in the art of it--fly-tying, the careful construction of a lure meticulously crafted to attract a very specific prey--than in the execution. Still, he felt no guilt in returning Will’s fish tales, earnestly and truthfully told, with those of old acquaintances tailored to suit himself. It did no harm, and, in combination with the wine, obviously put Will at ease. When Will suggested a joint fishing trip, he found himself accepting the invitation, and the last traces of the awkwardness generated by Will’s toast were eradicated. It would be a welcome diversion, and a chance to observe Will in a more organic setting than either his own office, the classroom, or an FBI crime scene.

 

The reminder of the cake in the oven came a few minutes later as they chatted congenially over the last of the wine, both plates scraped clean, and Hannibal placed his napkin on the table as he stood. “I must go to prepare dessert,” he informed Will, who drained the last of his wine--”so much better with the meal, you might actually have made a convert of me”-- and held up the empty glass in salute.

 

“Excellent,” he said, and Hannibal smiled at his wine-flushed expression.

 

He turned on the kitchen light, dispelling some of the ambience of the dining room, and replaced the cake in the oven with the silicone dish of glaze. It would heat as the cake cooled, and both would be at the perfect temperature by the time he was finished. He carefully removed the orange garnish from the fridge and considered the cake, feeling as though something else should be added for presentation’s sake. Recalling the vibrant red-and-gold of their dinner pallete, he decided to recreate the same colours using strawberries, and pulled out a small pint of the ripe red berries. One by one, he began to quickly slice them on the cutting board, splitting them into pieces with perfectly parallel cuts, then halving again the larger ones to make them all roughly the same size. The wooden board slowly became stained with juice, and his frustration slowly mounted as, one after the other, slicing the fruit resulted in perfectly fanned berries, delicate and beautiful and not at all what he had wanted.

 

“Taking a while for sliced strawberries, isn’t it?” Will asked from the doorway of the kitchen. Hannibal turned as he came into the room, precariously balancing the dishes from their dinner in his arms. They clattered onto the countertop, though mercifully, none broke, and he began rinsing the remnants of food from the plates under the faucet.

 

“It was my intention,” Hannibal admitted, a muscle jumping in his jaw. He considered another plump strawberry, holding it between thumb and forefinger. Placing it down on the cutting board, he sliced into it, and held out another perfect strawberry fan for Will’s inspection before crushing it to pulp in his fist. “It would appear Egle has other intentions.”

 

“Ah.” Will finished rinsing the dishes and came to stand by Hannibal, watching as he plucked another berry from the basket and cut into it as well. He could nearly hear the gears turning in Will’s mind as he observed, knowing how badly Will wanted to solve this problem, to prove to himself that their roles could be reversed and he could serve a purpose other than victim.

 

Fanning strawberries took much longer than slicing, though he wasn’t aware of the time passing until he glanced up at the clock. Frustrated, he turned the cake out of its pan onto a platter, and gingerly removed the glaze from the nearly cool oven. He tipped it out, drizzling it over the cake’s golden-brown surface, and watched as it rippled over the edges and down the sides. Pushing the cutting board full of strawberries away, he carefully transferred the orange garnish from it’s plate to the top of the cake, tipping out the last reserved glaze over the segments. He handed it to Will, who set it aside, eyes fixed on the strawberries.

 

“We should forego the strawberries,” Hannibal said, aware of how defeated his tone would sound. Frankly, he was tired; tired of trying to fight the compulsion. The cake would not be as thematically relevant without the strawberries, but eating the fruit as it was with a delicate cake like the angel food would result in nothing but crumbs and mess, and not the harmony of flavours he had been hoping for. Will, however, shook his head.

 

“Keep slicing,” he said, his tone earnest, trying to communicate some semblance of belief in Hannibal’s ability to do the impossible.

 

“It won’t work, Will,” he told the man, pushing away the board. “I have yet to properly slice a single strawberry. This is a waste of time and effort; let us have dessert, before it is too cold to be palatable.”

 

“Hannibal,” Will murmured, pushing the board back across the counter towards him. “Just...keep slicing.”

 

The use of his given name caught Hannibal off guard, and something about Will Graham--his actions of late, his attitude before and during their dinner, his reactions to Hannibal’s offer of friendship--slotted into place. He closed his eyes, and his hands picked up the actions where they had left off, making a single deft cut into the fruit. He edged the knife sideways, feeling rather than looking to make sure his fingers weren’t in the way of the paring knife’s sharp blade. He heard Will move, and was surprised to feel Will standing behind and a little to the right of him. His mind whirled, rapidly attempting to reorganize the pieces of the puzzle that was his understanding of Will Graham, realizing--even as his hands moved, warm under the weight and heat of Will’s palms, as Will guided him through the motions--that far from being in control of the situation, manipulating the outcome to his design, he had direly misread the other man.

 

Their hands moved in unison, Hannibal controlling the knife under Will’s direction, as the man directed their actions. One by one, the last strawberries in the basket were eviscerated under their joined hands. When Hannibal opened his eyes and looked down, Will stepped away, pulling his arms out from where they had insinuated themselves beneath Hannibal’s arms.

 

“See?” he said, with a jovial lightness to his tone. It was unexpected, Hannibal thought; but then, it would seem, there was a great deal about Will that was proving contrary to his expectations. “All it takes is a little teamwork.” A perfect pile of sliced strawberries rested, in a puddle of their own juices, on the cutting board. Hannibal felt a jolt of pleased surprise, though he tempered it, quickly, with a dose of skepticism.

 

Hannibal raised an eyebrow at Will as he rinsed his hands under the running water from the top. “Hardly; you have done all the work. I merely provided the tools.” Will’s face fell slightly, and Hannibal felt his own composure slot back into place as he regained control. “You could have merely offered to slice the strawberries for me.” He gently placed the fanned strawberries as garnishes around the supremed orange, and swept the rest into a small serving bowl to be doled out with the cake. Considering, he opened one of the cabinets and retrieved a tin canister, shaking out a light dusting of powdered sugar over the entire confection.

 

“You don’t feel any differently?” Will asked slowly. Hannibal considered his downcast expression, and gave full thought to all possible permutations of the question.

 

“It is difficult to say,” he answered finally, with what he felt was a great deal of honesty, though he wasn’t sure Will would say the same if he were privy to his private thoughts. “The compulsion never presented itself with any distinct feeling; it would require further experimentation, to determine if your actions had any effect.” Will looked for a brief moment as though he were about to say something, then thought better of it. He went into the cupboard for a pair of dessert plates, and gestured that Hannibal should precede him, with the cake and strawberries, into the dining room.

 

Where Will couldn’t see, Hannibal smiled down at the food he carried in his hands. The sliced strawberries shone like rubies in the candlelight.

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“That was distinctly excellent cake,” Will admitted, placing his fork down on the empty plate and sitting back in his chair. He wiped the corners of his mouth with his napkin and set it next to the plate, sighing happily. He wouldn’t pretend he wasn’t slightly disappointed; the afternoon and evening had not played out quite the way he had hoped they would, when he had made the appointment with Hannibal on his day off. But still; he had forged a now acknowledged friendship with the good doctor (though he hadn’t realized it had been so one-sided until that point), and the meal had truly been delicious. He considered asking Hannibal for the recipe for the cake, or at least the glaze, but after watching the man in the kitchen had come to the decision that Hannibal didn’t put much stock in recipes, preferring to cook by feel and instinct.

 

He did, however, want to find out where Hannibal bought his meat; the pork ribs had been sweeter and more tender than any he’d ever bought, and while it was likely Hannibal’s supplier was some artisan butcher who charged three times as much as the supermarket for a cut of meat, it might be worth it now and again for ribs like those.

 

His stunt with the strawberries hadn’t exactly been a shining moment, nor had it had the desired result; but he had the wine to blame, and he had honestly thought it might work to break the compulsion, at least enough to give it a try.

 

“Would you like another slice of cake, Will?” Hannibal offered from his seat at the head of the table, pointing to the cake with the knife and spatula, and Will had to consider hard for a moment before shaking his head no.

 

“It was delicious,” he assured Hannibal, because it had been; not too sweet, with just a hint of tart that wasn’t quite enough to pucker the lips. It was rich, though, and combined with the ribs and the potatoes, he was feeling quite full. Full, and just a little reckless. “The strawberries were an excellent touch.”

 

Hannibal smiled widely at that, acknowledging the small jibe by inclining his head. “That they were. My thanks to you.” He began gathering the few dishes that remained on the table, and waved off Will’s offer of help. “In lieu of cake, may I offer you a cup of coffee?”

 

“That would be fantastic,” Will admitted, smiling quickly. Full or not, no one he knew would ever deign to refuse a cup of Hannibal’s coffee. Brewed using some sort of fancy coffee pot that he didn’t know the name for, Hannibal’s coffee beans were the very definition of gourmet, and had honestly ruined him for all chain-cafe and breakroom coffee.

 

“Two cream?” Hannibal asked, and Will nodded, not surprised that Hannibal remembered how he took it. He cleared the dishes and whisked into the kitchen, and Will settled back into his seat, tipping his head back and closing his eyes as he focused on digesting.

 

He must have dozed slightly, he realized, as Hannibal placed a cup of coffee next to him in what felt like far less time than his exquisite coffee-of-the-gods usually took to make and touched him on the shoulder. He sat up, flashing an apologetic grimace at the man. “Good food,” he offered by way of explanation for his half-sleeping state, and reached out for the cup. Hannibal hovered by the back of his chair; he could feel the man’s warmth seeping through into his shoulder, the faint brush of his knuckles where his hand was resting on the chair back. The aroma was different than usual--a new blend, he supposed. He took a sip.

 

It took all his self-restraint to keep from spitting out the coffee, but he couldn’t quite quell the sound of disgust. He swallowed hurriedly, face contorting into a grimace, and slowly set the cup back down on the table.  In confusion, he glanced up over his shoulder to meet Hannibal’s gaze. His expression was expectant, though not in the way of a man who knows he is talented in the kitchen and is awaiting the obvious praise. His eyes were bright in the candlelight--Will was suddenly glad, rather than regretful, that he’d made the impulsive decision to light them--and a microsmile twitched at the corners of his mouth.

 

“My apologies for the dreadful coffee,” he murmured, sliding the cup away from Will’s reach. A bit of the hot liquid sloshed over the sides, staining the tablecloth, but he didn’t seem to notice. “I made instant.”

  
The moment it took for Will to realize the implications of that statement was the moment it took for Hannibal to lean down and gently press their lips together.


End file.
